


The Old Apartment

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breaking and Entering, Changing Tenses, Idk you decide, Illegal Activities, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Songfic, this fic is sort of angsty i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3889900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was their apartment. It was John’s, it was Bellamy’s, it was theirs, it was home. But that was a year ago, and now instead of a key, John has to use a paper clip to let himself in. The apartment isn’t his anymore, but the memories sure as hell are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> based on "The Old Apartment" by the Barenaked Ladies.
> 
> warnings for lots of anger and yelling/flashbacks of a mildly unhealthy relationship (mostly communication issues) and violence conducted on various household items. (also mucho swearing like tbh probably 30% of the words in this fic are "fuck")
> 
> murphy is referred to throughout as john. felt right in this au.

 

> _ Broke into the old apartment _  
>  _ This is where we used to live _  
>  _ Broken glass, broke and hungry _  
>  _ Broken hearts and broken bones _  
>  _ This is where we used to live _
> 
> _ Only memories, fading memories _  
>  _ Blending into dull tableau _  
>  _ I want them back _
> 
> _ —Barenaked Ladies, "The Old Apartment" ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YD5S7GT-wo)) _

 

 There are a few reasons John can think of to explain his current situation. The fumes of the drying paint on his new cabinet. The sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. Something must’ve fucked him up enough to make him think that loitering on his ex-boyfriend’s lawn is a good idea.

Even he’ll admit (and this is not a verb John likes to associate with) that it’s pretty far-fetched to blame everything on expired chicken salad. But there’s another reason he can think of, and he’s not in the mood to acknowledge it. Hasn’t been for nearly a year.

He pauses by the mailbox. He won’t go up to the house, he tells himself. He won’t leave the sidewalk. He’ll just look.

And he does for a few minutes, leaning against the mailbox and studying the old place. The driveway is empty, there are wispy shades covering the windows, the grass is newly cut. It’s nice, really. Everything looks quiet, peaceful. Nice.

John rubs his nose.

When has _just looking_ ever satisfied anyone?

He’s pounding on the door before he realizes he’s stumbled up the porch steps.

“Bellamy. Bellamy, open up. It’s John. I wanna talk, Bellamy. Bellamy, come on. Open up. Bellamy!”

He bangs on the wood. Bellamy’s not in. He knows that. He should shrug and back off the porch, walk down the steps, go home. But John’s never been one for letting things go—not when he’s committed to something, and maybe that’s why he and Bellamy don’t live together anymore.

He punches the door, jerks at the doorknob feebly.

Bellamy’d probably changed the lock the day John moved out. They’d had a big fight about the key, just a few days after John thought they were finished having fights. “Give me the key, we’re not together, I don’t want you around here anymore” was Bellamy’s argument. “No” was the gist of John’s. (John won.)

It wasn’t that he’d been planning on hanging around. Once they were done (and, really, they’d been done for a while before either acknowledged it), John’d wanted out almost as much as Bellamy had. The key wasn’t some way of keeping a jealous eye on Bellamy. That wasn’t why he’d wanted it. It was the control.

John likes to hold on to things. Grudges, memories. And keys.

(The only problem is that keys don’t have much control when they don’t fit the lock anymore.)

Some distant part of his mind has the capacity to know it’s bad when he pulls out a pair of paper clips—fucking _paper clips_ , he’d rather break into their old apartment with office supplies than walk away, what kind of idiot is he?He maneuvers them into the lock, twists and jiggles until he hears a scraping noise that sounds like its days of securing the door are over. He doesn’t feel guilty.

Or maybe he does. He hesitates over the threshold, clenching the doorknob so hard his fist turns white.  This isn’t his apartment. It’s Bellamy’s.

But everything _looks_ like his. The door, the porch steps, the cracked window, the overgrown walkway. The white picket fence surrounding the house had fallen down a year or so ago; the paint had flaked long before. Someone’s put stepping stones over the muddy path that had been there, but other than that everything’s the same, preserved from a time when this place was his, when John called this place home. He sucks in a breath and steps into the apartment.

It’s the same. It’s the same and it’s not his and that’s just so fucked up. The coatrack Bellamy’d finally dragged in after months of throwing their jackets on the floor is the same. It still leans on its two back legs, still tips a bit whenever someone hangs their coat on it. And yet somehow it’s not the same. It’s not the same, it’s got an unfamiliar jacket hanging on its arms. Black. Leather. Worn.

_Not Bellamy’s_.

John grabs at it, sniffing the sleeves. Lotion. That stupid, fragrant kind of lotion. Even if it’s just a new jacket of Bellamy’s, since when has he used fucking _lotion_? Bellamy Blake is a lot of things, but he’s not the moisturizing type.

John tosses the jacket back on the rack. He doesn’t have to look hard to come to the conclusion: Bellamy’s got a girlfriend. There are a few framed pictures on the table, hipster-filtered and everything. Photo booth strips on the fridge, all sickeningly cute and couple-y.  Bell never did that kind of shit with John when they were together. He doesn’t like that stuff, but it would’ve been nice if Bellamy’d _asked_ once in a while.

He makes a face at the blonde’s smile, Bellamy’s arm circling her back, and tosses the photo, sending it skidding off the counter. He wants to know everything about this girlfriend. He wants to forget she exists. She’s pretty. She’s ugly. 

He turns away. She’s not worth it.

He slinks through the hall.  The walls are completely different. The pale green-blue he and Bellamy had chosen nearly a year ago has been covered with a boring cream. It makes his eyes sting with anger. It’s a fucking crime. It’s a fucking crime. It’s like covering the Mona Lisa with a blanket of Whiteout. If he strips down this layer of paint, will he find that familiar blue?

“No,” he growls, thumping the wall with a fist. “ _Fuck_. Why’d you _change_ it? It was _perfect_.”

He digs a fingernail into the paint, tries to find a purchase. It doesn’t hold. He swears.

“Why’d you _change_ it?” he yells. “You fucking _liar_.”

What had Bellamy said? Some stupid shit about pale blue and John’s eyes and how it was the sort of color he wanted all over the apartment so he could look at it forever. And John had _believed_ him. He’d believed him and they’d gone to the hardware store, bought four cans of Sea Song, stayed up to the early hours in the morning slathering it onto the walls.

“You liar. You goddamn liar.”

John kicks at the wall, but the scuff marks that appear on it don’t make him feel any better. If Bell’s the liar, what’s he? The stupid kid who got caught up in freckles and waves of inky hair. The idiot romantic who thought _for once_ maybe this story would have a happy ending.

His toe is sore from battering the walls. John hates the throbbing pain. He hates the fucking walls. He hates the unfamiliar jacket hanging by the door. He hates the way the sunlight comes through the gauzy drapes, hates the way the whole fucking apartment smells. Everything’s fucking _clean_. The floors are spotless—the old rotting wood’s been replaced with cold, slick tiles. The carpet is new, too. Everything in this old house is new. He hates it.

He feels drunk as he slips through the apartment. Dizzy.  Everything’s the same and not the same and none of it is his. It fucking _hurts_ , and he doesn’t want to be here anymore, but he needs to. For some fucked up reason he needs this. If there’s one thing John hates more than endings, it’s not understanding.

He traces his fingertips over the wall as he walks into the kitchen, and he almost misses it. It’s been filled and covered with plaster, painted over with thick, smug brushstrokes. There used to be a hole here, jagged and laced with memories and a bit of John’s blood. It’s gone now, but John can still feel the tightness of his hand, the throbbing pain, the crack of his knuckles on hollow wall. He cradles his right fist. The wall might not have the scars, but his fist still does.

It was about a year and a half ago. Some April night when the rent was due, the rent was always due, and they were always a few steps behind. That time, it was several steps. Maybe a couple jumps.

They usually laughed their way through bills, Bellamy hunched over a calculator and a quickly dulling pencil, John cracking jokes and eating all the peanuts in their trail mix. It was always bad. Money was tight, especially after rent. But they managed. Extra shifts for John, sucking up to his bosses at the office for Bellamy.

That night was different. Bellamy’d spent hours going over their bills, and John sat and watched him, quiet.  It was worse. John could tell. Bellamy’s brow had pulled closer and closer together, his mouth twisted into a grimace. And then he had started drinking. At first it was beer, and that was alright, because they each took one out and clinked and laughed and knew the bills would get payed. But as the evening went on, Bellamy turned to the stash of hard liquor hidden in the cabinet. It was John’s, really, and it sat untouched for the better part of the year. But Bellamy had taken out a bottle of vodka and kept his glass full.

It made John angry.

It was stupid anger, John knew. It was hypocritical and ridiculous. But _John_ was the drunk. Bellamy was the one who stayed sober and drove him home when he was so smashed he couldn’t speak straight. Bellamy was the responsible one, the one who’d weaned John off alcohol. Bellamy wasn’t supposed to turn to it. That was John’s thing.

Barely keeping his rage in check, John had told him to stop after a few rounds.

Bellamy had ignored him.

To be fair, he was buried in bills and calculations and he had probably shut John’s voice out a long time ago. But it didn’t matter to John, Bellamy wasn’t fucking _listening_ , and that was all John could hear.This unimaginable ball of anger had coiled in his stomach, and Bellamy sat there downing shot after shot of vodka, not _listening_ , and John’s head started to go fuzzy and his jaw ached and his vision went dusky and the next thing he knew, his fist was embedded in the wall in the kitchen and he was screaming.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Bellamy had said, and gotten a bit shakily to his feet. He appeared behind John, put a hand on his back.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” John hissed, tears streaming down his face.

“Jesus, John…”

“You wouldn’t _listen_ to me, I just wanted you to _stop—_ ”

“You need to go to the hospital.”

John had sniffled and gritted his teeth against the aching. “I _know_ , you dumbfuck.”

“I’ll drive. C’mon.”

“You fucking kidding me? You’re fucking hammered.”

Bellamy blinked. “’M fine.”

“You’re shitfaced and I’m not getting in a car with you.”

“Okay, okay, got it.” He shuffled away to call an ambulance.

It was then that John decided, for perhaps the hundredth time, that he hated alcohol. He fucking hated it. And in that moment, his fist tight and hot and bleeding, he hated Bellamy.

The silence in the apartment as they waited for the ambulance had been brutal.

In the morning, he’d woken up in a hospital bed, Bellamy’s freckles swimming before his sleepy eyes. “John, hey, you’re awake,” he’d murmured. He sounded relieved.

“Yeah.”

“Thought you’d sleep through the day.”

“I wish. I’m already sick of your face.”

Bellamy had smirked. Then he swallowed. “Hey. Last night—do you remember…?”

John clenched his jaw and looked at the cast on his arm. He looked away. “I remember you were a fucking idiot.”

“I was just—I was _stressed_ , okay? I’ve been really—It’s been—You know, you wouldn’t understand, because you never help out with the shit that matters.”

John sat up, wincing at the twinge in his hand. “Are you _joking_? You better be fucking joking.”

“No, I’m not. I always have to do this shit. I have to be your fucking mom, or something. You’re twenty-three, alright? You should be able to handle paying the goddamn bills.”  They were getting loud. A nurse had looked at them in warning. Bellamy made an apologetic face, gesturing to John, and he hated that, Bellamy apologizing for him like he was some errant kid.

“You don’t _let_ me. You don’t like it when I get in your way.”

“That’s because you’re never helpful.”

“I _try_ to be.” It had come out a bit whinier than John would have liked.

“Oh, yeah? You try so hard? Why the _fuck_ did you put your fist in that wall? You think that’s going to _help_ anything, John? You think paying for the ambulance and the hospital shit is going to _help_ us pay the rent? Jesus, if that’s what you think…”

“What?” John had asked, clenching his good fist. “What? What were you going to say?”

Bellamy looked down at his hands. “Nothing,” he said, sighing. The anger faded from his voice. He didn’t sound mad anymore, just tired. “Nothing. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

But John hated lies, and he hated when things ended without really ending. “You know, it’s weird. It’s weird how you say you hate having to be my parent but then you go and talk to me like I’m your kid.”

“John…”

“Go home, Bellamy,” John had told him. “Just go home.”

And Bellamy went.

 

John remembers it all. The coldness of the apartment when he’d gotten back and found Bellamy waiting for him. The silence when neither knew what to say.

(That silence had lasted longer than a day, longer than a week.)

His fist aches.

He pulls out a chair and collapses into it. He puts his head in his hands, rocks back and forth, tries to ignore that tightness in his throat, the warm wet on his cheeks. His fingers curl deep into the roots of his hair, yanking savagely. If he pulls harder, he can almost pretend the tears are from that pain.

“I hate you,” he whispers to the empty apartment. “I fucking _hate_ you.”

He hates tears and he hates the memories and the pain and he hates that he always, _always_ gets like this. Why the fuck did he come here? He’s a fucking _idiot_ , why’d he _come_ here? It’s his fault, all his fault, and it’s Bellamy’s, too, for changing fucking _everything_ , for making John hurt.

He sits for a while. Doesn’t know how long. As long as the tears crawl through the cracks of his fingers. Long enough for the light to hurt when he uncovers his face.

(Too long.)

When he takes his hands away, his eyes catch on a little wooden thing wedged behind the couch. It takes him a minute, and his memories recognize it before his eyes do. A mousetrap. Bait gone fuzzy with mold. Still hasn’t sprung, not once in the two years it’s been set. The mouse it’s meant for is still around.

John’s a bit jealous of that beady-eyed piece of shit.

That mousetrap has a story. Everything in this goddamn house has a story. But this one’s good. At least, John thinks so. It’s the sort of story you tell your friends when you go to their anniversary parties, their wedding parties, their promotion parties, their _I’ve got a life and I’m doing something with it_ parties. John hasn’t been to many.

He tells the story to himself, mostly. It’s still a good one.

“Gotta get a mousetrap or something,” Bellamy had said when the rodent skidded across the floor, bounding to its hideaway.

“I kind of like him. He’s part of the family.”

“Might as well be. Eats more than I do.”

John had rolled his eyes, smiled. “Fine. If you want to get a mousetrap, get one. But only the cool kind. The wooden ones with the loaded spring.”

“What other kind is there?”

“I don’t know, but there’s always a lame version of _something_.”

Bellamy stared at him. “And you think I’d get the lame version?”

“Well yeah. You’re _lame_ , Bell.”

He’d laughed. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m lame?”

“It’s not _bad_ lame. It’s just—You’re just…” John shrugged, smiling, “ _lame_. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know! Go get your mousetrap.”

“ _Fine_.” He grabbed his coat, and the rack bounced on its uneven legs. “You need anything while I’m out?”

“No,” John said. He’d turned back to the cartoon he was watching, keeping a lazy eye on Bellamy. He was taking his sweet old time, painstakingly buttoning up his coat. John’d thumped the couch with his leg. Bellamy was lingering at the door, and it was making John itch. He was so _slow_.

Bellamy made a face. “You don’t have to act so eager to get me out of the apartment.”

“ _Bell_ ,” John had groaned, “ _Bell_ , just _go_.”

He left with a shrug, and came back within twenty minutes holding a ridiculously tiny plastic bag. John poked at it in delight. “It’s so _small_ ,” he said.

Bellamy frowned. “Waste of resources. Fucking capitalism.”

“Yeah, yeah, killing the earth, I know. Where’s the trap?”

He pulled it out of the bag, fingers splayed carefully even though it wasn’t set. John grinned. “Fuck, that’s so cool. What should we put on it?”

“Huh?”

“Bait, Bell. We need bait.”

He scratched his head. “Oh. I don’t know…Peanut butter? Mice like peanut butter.”

“ _I_ like peanut butter. I’m not giving up my fucking peanut butter.”

“It’s just one scoop.”

“Jesus, it’s _my_ peanut butter…”

“Just one tiny scoop.”

“The mouse isn’t even that bad, I don’t see why we have to—”

“Take one for the _team_ , John.”

He scowled, crossed his arms. “If you’re so excited about taking one for the team, why can’t we use your tortilla chips?”

Bellamy pouted. “But they’re _my_ tortilla chips…”

“Uh-huh.”

“They’re _special_ , John, you know that.”

“Don’t know why. Bunch of seeds and shit in them.”

“They’re _blue_.”

“Fine,” said John. “We’ll compromise. A piece of chip with some peanut butter on it.”

Bellamy had sighed. “Fine. But I get to choose how big the piece is.”

“Only if I get to choose how much peanut butter goes on it.”

“ _Fine_.”

They’d stared at each other, John’s arms crossed, Bell’s eyes narrowed.

They never caught the damn mouse.

John thinks that’s the best part. The punchline. Gets him every time.

No one else has ever laughed.

But it’s funny, isn’t it? All that grief over a damn mouse and the fucking thing’s still scurrying around Bell’s apartment, probably pissing on his socks and chewing holes in his underwear.

John hadn’t cared for that mouse before, but he likes it now.

Things change.

Some things, John thinks. Not all. Not when you want them to. Not when _John_ wants them to.That’s how it seems.

It takes him a good five minutes, but he manages to squeeze himself behind the couch. He picks up the mousetrap, smirks unwittingly at the crusty peanut butter. He tosses it in the trash. Doesn’t look back when he hears the wood crack against the metal of the waste bin. Doesn’t think about it. Tries not to.

All the best things change. The worst stay the same.

Bellamy’s landline phone is the same. Same old piece of crap. Too much looping cord to keep on the counter, always falling half onto the floor and irritating John because it always tripped him. Of course, it didn’t have enough cord to go more than a few paces away from the wall. That irritated Bellamy, who liked to walk around while he was on the phone. (That irritated John.)

John smiles a little as he takes it out of the cradle, its weight familiar in his fist. Some of the numbers had started wearing off long ago. Half of them are all but gone. 9, 3, 8, 4, 7. Rubbed blurry, mostly by John’s fingertips. He stops smiling. He wonders if Bellamy’s number is still the same, or if he changed that when John moved out, too.

John hates that phone number.

And it’s not like he doesn’t have a reason. Reasons, actually.

There’s the fact that John had been the one to convince Bellamy to get _rid_ of that fucking TracFone, damn it, and get an iPhone like a fucking civilized human being. It’d taken a lot of coaxing and pleading and threatening (Bellamy _liked_ his TracFone, it was _nice_ , it was de _pendable_ , why’d he have to get a phone with all those button-thingies?), but John had pulled it off, and it’s because of him that all those nines and fours and sevens are faded and smudged on that stupid landline.

John laughs, but nothing’s funny. He puts the phone down, and it feels just like those empty apartment nights from almost a year ago, hearing the crash of the plastic against the cradle, hearing it echo in the kitchen.

Those were the days when he’d waited for Bellamy to call.

John really started understanding it on some late October night. Or maybe an early morning, depending on how you looked at it. He didn’t care what you called it; Bellamy wasn’t home and that was what had mattered. 

He’d stationed himself by their old landline phone, staring at it like that would make Bellamy come home faster. He bounced his knee, bit at the side of his mouth. He hummed the complete soundtrack of _Mamma Mia!_ , picked at his nails. Bellamy still hadn’t come home.

When the phone finally rang, John’s teeth sliced through his cheek. He’d jumped up and snatched it out of the cradle. “Hi,” he’d said, breathless. “Bell?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy was tired—John could hear it in his voice. Tired, pissed off, and not in the mood to talk about his recent shortcomings as a boyfriend. (Of which there were many, in John’s opinion.)

“It’s late,” John had told him. “It’s always late. You’re always late.”

It was stupid, an idiotic thing made even worse by the timing, but it was true, and John hadn’t regretted saying it. Mostly.

Bellamy had sighed. Not the apologetic kind of sigh, the _Jesus, this again_ sigh he seemed to dole out often at the time. “I know, John. I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been trying to get off of work, but they won’t let me. It’s just really busy here.”

John pressed his lips tight together. “Does that mean you’re not coming home?” He had meant it to be a jab, but it ended up quiet and pathetic.

“ _Fuck_ , I am sorry, alright? As soon as the budget’s all worked out, I’ll come home early, make it up to you.” Bellamy’d paused. “John?”

“Yeah,” he’d breathed. He listened to the crackling of the line a moment longer, wished he could be listening to Bell’s voice instead. He sighed, and Bellamy said something like, “Are we good? Can I go?”

John chewed at his ragged cheek. He opened his mouth to say, “Yeah, we’re good,” but instead he said, “I wish you’d come home.”

The line crackled.

John closed his eyes, his hand curling into a fist around the phone. “I don’t want to take you away from the budget. Get a cab when you’re done. Don’t drive home, okay?”

“Sure.” Bellamy’d paused, for a different reason this time. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “I am really sorry, John. I don’t want this any more than you do.”

“I know,” said John, though he had a lot more to say.

Bellamy waited, but John was silent. He stopped waiting. “See you soon.” He disconnected a second too late, and John heard him say, “Alright, sorry guys, just John. Let’s—”

And maybe he’d said more than that, but John was finished listening.

Just John. _Just_ fucking John.

He’d slammed the phone into its cradle and stared at the wall. He could feel the anger building in his chest, could feel a tide straining at his throat. Bellamy _always_ fucking did this. He was always late, and yeah, John knew it wasn’t completely his fault. He was the bread maker or breadwinner or whatever the fuck you called it. It wasn’t like John’s extra shifts at the coffeehouse did much to cushion them. But it didn’t _matter_. It didn’t _matter_ , because Bellamy was never _home_ , he was never there for John, he was always in the office and he _was never there for John_.

He tried to ignore the phone, tried to ignore his anger. He went to the stove, made a box of Kraft mac and cheese, ate the whole thing. It was Bell’s favorite dinner, but John didn’t care, because he was never _there_ for dinner, and that’s what you fucking get if you’re never there.

He felt sick.

He went into their bedroom and lay on the bed—didn’t bother to take off his clothes, take a shower. He’d laid on the blankets and tried not to think about how beds are a lot bigger when there’s only one person in them. He’d fallen asleep after an hour or two of listening to his stomach moan. He hadn’t known when Bellamy got home, and he still doesn’t. He never asked. Afraid of the answer, maybe. Afraid of what it would prove.

Of what it proves.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John says, and grinds his teeth together. The phone’s still the same phone. Same fucking phone, same stupid, idiot memories. Same phone John sat in front of, spent nights waiting for Bellamy’s stupid calls. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says. “You could’ve fucking _tried_ harder. You fucking _should’ve_.”

He’s got his wrists wrapped in the telephone cord, tighter and tighter. His fists are turning red. No, purple, they’re turning purple, and it scares John. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he doesn’t free himself from the cord, and that scares him a little, too. He just keeps pulling, and he doesn’t know why, he’s just pulling. Tugging at the wire, jerking it back, because if he pulls hard enough maybe he can pull back everything. Maybe he can pull back his time, his memories; maybe he can pull back Bellamy, pull back their apartment, their love. God fucking knows he won’t let it go once it’s pulled into his arms.

There’s a cracking sound. Groaning, almost. And then the pressure on John’s arms—he hadn’t even noticed it, really—falls away. He opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is an open patch in the wall, cracks in the plaster. 

_Shit_.

It’s the fucking phone cord, the whole fucking phone, ripped clean out of the wall, and he’s still got it wrapped around his wrists. He tries to feed the thin wire back into the socket, but that doesn’t fix anything. The damage’s been done. _His_ damage.

Jesus fucking Christ, what’s he _doing_ here? What’s he doing, what’s he done?

He chokes; gags. Doesn’t know on what. Could be tears, could be air, could be memories, could be nothing at all. But he coughs, and he drops the loose cord. It lands on the floor, coiled in a messy heap, and he stares at it for a long time.

His wrists throb back to life.

He looks around. The mangled wires in the wall, the scattered photographs in the kitchen. The mousetrap lying in the trash. He looks at his hands, still crisscrossed with white and purple-red. He looks at the front door, the lock he knows he’s broken. He looks at the clean, cold floors and the ugly walls and the coatrack and the patchy sofa. He looks at the old apartment— _his_ old apartment, because even if it’s not his now, it _was_ and that’ll always be true. He looks at everything, remembers everything.

He laughs.

He fucking _laughs_ , and it sounds just as fucked up as he thinks it should. One long, ringing belt of laughter. Just _laughs_. 

He looks at the old TV set and remembers Bellamy staying up late watching dusty documentaries on PBS, and maybe something hurts for a second, but then he laughs.

It doesn’t hurt as much, not when he’s laughing.

So he laughs, and laughs again. Walks through the apartment, sees Bellamy’s ratty pair of hiking boots, remembers the trails he and Bell had made together in the woods. Remembers getting poison ivy rashes on his hands when he’d tried to make an ivy crown for his boyfriend. He’d laughed then, too, and so had Bell. John smiles. He laughs, but it’s not for Bellamy, not this time. He laughs until the only thing left hurting is his stomach.

And he keeps laughing.

He sees Bellamy’s organic, locally-produced, Earth-friendly blue corn tortilla chips sitting on the counter. Remembers the adventures they used to go on just to find those stupid fucking chips. Four different farmers’ markets. A whole tank of gas. John laughs. 

He laughs at the neat stack of mail on the table. He knows who insists on arranging it by size and importance.

Bellamy’s blue beanbag chair. Laugh.

Bellamy’s analog clock hanging on the wall. John could never read it, no matter how many lessons Bellamy’d given him. He still can’t. He laughs.

He puts his feet up on the table, knows how much Bell had hated that. He laughs.

He stomps around on the kitchen floor, jumps up and down like a kid. He laughs.

He doesn’t stop.

It feels good.

 

John stands on the porch, puts his hands in his pockets, turns to the walkway. He gives himself a little shake. Time to leave. Forever, this time.

As the rounded toe of his shoe touches the first step, he hears a car door slam. He knows who it is without looking. John’s memorized the sound of his footsteps, the way he flips his car keys in the air twice before bouncing them five time in his palm.

The footsteps stop. The keys rattle as they’re shoved into a pocket.

“John.” There’s surprise in his voice. Not the bad kind, not any kind at all. His voice hasn’t changed, but his hair’s different. Cleaner, less shaggy. Everything about him is more… _tidy_.He grips the grocery bag nervously, like he’s afraid John’ll steal his eggs.

“It’s Murphy,” John says, just to prove he’s changed too. “It’s Murphy now.”

Bellamy blinks. “Oh. What are you doing here?” He’s guarded—nervous—and John doesn’t blame him.

“Just dropping off the key.” John gives him a fake smile and presses it into Bellamy’s hand.

He looks at it, numb. “It doesn’t work. I changed the locks when you moved out.”

John’s smile becomes a little vicious. “I know.”

“Okay…Thanks, I guess.” Bellamy squints at him. “Did you—did you want to talk about something?”

John tucks his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “Nah. I’ve got nothing left to say.”

Bellamy nods, more to himself than anything. “Okay. Okay. Um, nice seeing you, Joh—Sorry. Murphy. Nice seeing you.”

“Nice seeing you too,” John lies. He hops off the porch without checking to see if Bellamy’s watching him. The confused “What the…?” and the jiggling of the doorknob is enough.

He studies the smooth gray surface of the stepping stone path as he walks away. He almost feels bad at what Bellamy will find. He almost turns around and says he’s sorry, and not just for breaking in. He almost wishes things could go back to the way they were. He almost doesn’t want to leave. 

He coughs out a laugh as he passes his old mailbox.

Almost never meant much to John anyway, and when he looks back at the old apartment, he only looks once. 

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i have no clue how this fic got this long (it started out as a short thing??) but hey i finished it and that’s what matters.
> 
> no but actually if you made it to the end i will send you a hypothetical cookie with my hypothetical telekinesis powers. feedback/critique would be amazing, as i have a limited idea of what the actual hell i’m doing.
> 
> talk ~~murphy ~~~~~~to me on[tumblr](http://www.richardharmonica.tumblr.com).


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